To Know and Love What You Live With
by Brown Eyes Parker
Summary: We'll get through this, we'll get through this, she tells herself over and over again because they've been through terrifying things before and survived it. She has faith in Sherlock, has faith that he'll find his footing again. Rated T. Spoilers for A Controlled Descent. Joanlock if you squint.


**To Know and Love With What You Live With**

 **A Sherlock & Joan Story**

 **By Brown Eyes Parker**

 **Author's Note:**

 **The title comes crom "It Takes A Lot To Know A Man" by Damien Rice, because if they hadn't used "Beekeeper" this song would have fit the scene really well too.**

 **Rated: T**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

 **.**

 _For Katherine_

Joan spends the first night sitting in the chair beside his bed, jerking in and out of sleep as she tries to make sure he's still with her as he sleeps off his high.

 _We'll get through this, we'll get through this,_ she tells herself over and over again because they've been through terrifying things before and survived it. She has faith in Sherlock, has faith that he'll find his footing again.

She finally drifts off to sleep and she is powerless to stop it.

When she wakes up, he is gone. She frantically rushes around the brownstone, searching for him and is relieved when she realizes he is still on the property, on the roof. Staring out at the pink and purple sunrise over the New York skyline. When she touches his shoulder, he doesn't even flinch, doesn't even look at him.

She wants to push him to talk to her, to ask why he fell, what his motivations were for shooting up and ruining a good three years of sobriety. But she doesn't because she knows from experience that he won't tell her anything. She turns around and leaves him by himself, calling up Gregson to tell him they need some time off as she goes downstairs.

The third day, he still isn't talking to her. She practically begs him to tell her that he's _okay_ but he still doesn't speak to her, doesn't look at her. He continues to stare out at the New York skyline, lost in the prison of his mind. She stood a few feet away from him, hands in her pockets, watching over him, his lighthouse through the newest tempest in his life. . . his guardian. This time she is not going to leave him alone.

The fourth day, it's raining. . . . like _really_ raining, the thunder is so loud and the lighting is so bright that it causes Joan to jump every single time it goes off. Sherlock, thank God, spends the day in his room, protected from the squalling storm outside. She peeks in on him periodically; he sits in a chair facing the window, just staring.

Always staring.

Mr. Holmes shows up, seething and unforgiving, cursing the bad weather under his breath. He rages at Sherlock from behind the closed door and Joan flinches as she leans against the wall, just watching and wanting to intervene. When Holmes senior starts to threaten, she steps in and offers him something to drink. He calms with whiskey and coffee and a symphony on the record player. Fortified by it herself, Joan can only see a concerned, grieving father. He is asking all the questions she is asking herself.

 _How? Why? How? Why?_ Over and over again, both of them certain that it isn't either of their faults but needing somebody to blame for his relapse. They don't say it aloud or make any guesses; they don't talk about it at all.

Instead he thanks her for being a good friend to his son, for never deserting him.

Joan doesn't tell him about the one time they _did_ desert each other. Because she was looking for independence, because he had had his feelings hurt by her.

She orders out, too exhausted to even crack eggs into a frying pan or to put toast into the toaster. They pick at their Chinese food, pushing the lo Mein around on their plates, picking up eggrolls and putting them down without even touching them.

Joan breaks open her fortune cookie and reads the fortune to give her something to do. She reads it and promptly crumples it up, tossing it in the soy sauce and thick brown sauce from her ginger beef. She doesn't want to hear about spring not being far behind winter, winter has come and she doesn't know how long it will stay.

When Mr. Holmes senior goes to the Waldorf for the night, she kicks off her shoes, pulls off her tights and takes the stairs, creeps into Sherlock's room and curls up at the end of the bed. She watches him watch the flashing lighting and doesn't sleep.

On the fifth day, Marcus comes with groceries and news. Oscar is going to make a full recovery. Oscar isn't going to press charges. Oscar might do time.

Marcus doesn't say it aloud but Joan can hear his thoughts.

 _Oscar is_ freaking _scum._

He doesn't stay long after that, he takes in Joan's haggard appearance and doesn't ask if she's been sleeping, even though she knows the question is on the tip of his tongue. He wishes her luck, wishes Sherlock to get well soon and leaves, looking anxiously behind him as he takes the concrete steps two at a time.

Mycroft calls, the reception is bad because he is still on the run and all Joan can really hear is static and a few words here and there. _Dad. . . wish. . . be there. . he'll be. . .I'll call later_ before hanging up. Her cell rings again and its Mr. Holmes senior, telling her that he won't be coming over today. There is really nothing he can do for them.

Joan is thankful. She has less energy than the day before. She goes back to Sherlock's room and takes up her place at the end of his bed.

The sixth day, Mason shows up on their doorstep, smiling.

"Sherlock can't come out and play right now," Joan tells him wearily.

"I know!" Mason answers. "I came to see if there's anything I can do for you guys."

Joan lets him in because she can't think of a reason not to let him in. And he talks a million miles a minute while he washes dishes and shoots off a few tweets on his phone. Afterwards, he makes her grilled cheese and gives her a hug. Then he is gone too.

She loses track of the days.

They are both spiraling into madness, she thinks.

 **.**

"Baby, you _desperately_ need a shower!"

Joan opens her eyes slowly and blinks a few times; Mrs. Hudson is standing over her with her hands on her hips and large purse dangling from her left elbow.

"Where's Sherlock?" Joan asks, sitting up feeling the panic rise up in her chest, her voice sounds gravelly because she hasn't really used it lately.

"Finishing up his own shower right about now," Mrs. Hudson answers. "Don't you worry about a thing anymore, darling! I'm here now and I am going to take very good care of the both of you."

Joan nods, doesn't ask about how she knows about Sherlock, and _really_ falls asleep for the first time in a long time. The next thing she knows, Mrs. Hudson is shaking her awake and leading her to the bathroom.

Joan goes downstairs when she is finished, wrapped in only her bathrobe, her damp hair slicked back at the nape of her neck. Sherlock is sitting at the table, bent over a bowl of chicken noodle soup. He doesn't even look at her when she sits down beside him.

Mrs. Hudson comes with a bowl of soup for Joan and looks at them like they are two petulant children and shakes her head, muttering something unintelligible as she walks away from them.

She leaves them a few hours later, well-fed and washed; the house is almost back to her usual standards of cleanliness.

Before she goes, she touches Joan on the arm. "Talk to him, baby, he needs you."

Joan can't make any promises; she doesn't know how to talk to him right now.

She goes to her own room for bed because she thinks they're almost out of the woods now. He is clean and he actually ate something, he didn't spend the whole day in his room or on the roof.

She wakes up when she hears movement in her bedroom.

Sherlock is sitting in the chair near her bed, staring at her.

Just staring.

Joan sits up. "Sherlock? Is everything alright?"

"It could have been you," Sherlock answers, his voice is hollow and he's looking at her like she's the best thing he's seen in a while. "I don't know what I would have done if it had been _you_."

"Is that why you've been avoiding me?" Joan asks, feeling her heart sink to her toes.

He doesn't answer her, before she can react, he's up off his feet and in her bed and uncharacteristically clinging to her, like he's a drowning man and she is his lifeline. He buries her face in his neck and she is astounded to realize that he is _crying_.

She wraps her arms around him as her own eyes well up with tears and together they fall apart.

They wake up late the next day, a tangle of limbs and blankets, their eyes are burning from all the tears they have shed. The sun is shining and it is like their world has shifted into something strange and new and lovely.

The next day, he tells her that he needs to go to a meeting and asks her to go with him. She agrees and they part to get dressed. They eat breakfast together and talk about nothing, but it's good to hear his voice, to use her own again.

Mrs. Hudson comes in and smiles when she sees them together, she puts her apron on and goes to tackle the bedrooms the two of them have been living in for the past three weeks.

 **.**

Later, after the meeting is over, they take a walk in Central Park and he buys her a fudgsicle from the ice cream trucks that are just starting to make their rounds again.

Everything isn't okay yet, but they're getting there.

She _knows_ they are going to get there.

 **_The End_**

 **.**

 **Author's Note II:**

 **I know this is all over the place and I probably ended it a bit abruptly. But my original ending had him kissing her and that was at 5am this morning, and I don't think they're quite at the stage where they'll be kissing. Not in this story and most definitely on the show. Anyways, this story has been torturing me since Thursday night; I hope you will tell me what you think. And I hope it wasn't too out of character for either of our beloved Joan and Sherlock.**

 **I guess I might be posting more stories for them over the next few months, I can't leave the poor babies on the roof and so sad.**

 **Until Next Time!**

 **Holly, 5/16/2015_**


End file.
